


Vedette

by tatecorrigan



Category: Flesh and Bone - Fandom
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-05-01 09:25:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5200664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tatecorrigan/pseuds/tatecorrigan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He calls. She picks up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vedette

Shirtless, he treads tiredly into her room, ghosting his thumb over the damage in the doorframe from where he’d finally gotten the lock undone. He breathes gently in this quiet space, watching the dust motes in the dim light, the outline of the books now gone from her bookshelf. She took them all. He wonders how she managed to carry them by herself.

On the lamp he notices the glass ballerina, a present he bought her when they were both young. Just a cheap trinket, really, but she had smiled and thanked him and he had been dazzled by the love in her eyes, reflecting back some fraction of his feelings. He grasps it now, holds it tighter than if it were her, here, with him, now.

He lifts a knee to her mattress, the faded pink invaded by his denim. As the bed creaks under his weight he groans quietly and collapses face-first into her pillow. Sucking air through the fabric he can smell her, the faint memory of her hair, and it makes his stomach tight. He rolls over and reaches for his phone, suddenly wanting. She hasn’t answered any of his voicemails or texts but he’s got to try, he’s got to keep trying until he gets through to her. As the phone dials, wedged between the pillow and the side of his face, his left hand trails down his stomach; the smell of her awakens remembered passions and there is a spark, now, quickly fanning into flames. He makes quick work of his belt buckle and zipper before slipping his hand down to—

“ _Hello?_ ”

He sighs, both from the touch and the sound of her voice. He is so, _happy_ isn’t the word, rather he feels _complete_ to hear her. He needs her like water, never far from his touch.

“Where the hell are you?” He breathes heavily. “Dad’s really worried.”

“ _I left him a note._ ” He is dumbfounded, laughs at the audacity. A _note_!

“Well that was a chickenshit move,” he chides. She was reckless, foolish, cowardly. He expects better from her. Then he sighs, his tone shifting to brotherly concern. “Are you okay?” His hand continues to fondle languidly.

“ _I’m fine._ ” Her voice cracks as she answers.

He can hear the stress there, the tension. Wherever she is, it’s been a hard few days. His eyes crash closed as he breathes, relieved nonetheless. “I didn’t even get to see you.” His touch quickens. “You forgot your ballerina. Just left it here.” The ornament in his hand is old. Among all the dancing-themed trinkets in her room, it is seeing this one that has hurt him. She won’t see him, and she won’t remember him. It makes his throat tight.

“I miss you.” Saying it feels like a sob. It’s been so long since he was home, so long since he last saw her face, held her in his arms. He was looking forward to it. So many nights alone in his bed, so many long, pointless days, bored out of his mind. Thinking of her kept him focused. What was she doing? Was she still dancing? Over and over again in his mind he would remember the sight of her dancing, how it always caught him by surprise to see her strength, her grace, in the slip of her body.

Going to her door, hearing the faint rustle of her movements between the pounds of his fist and calling her name, and getting no answer…it had torn his heart.

“Tell me where you are.”

He wants to bring her home, wants to go out and find her, wherever she is, and save her. Bring her home where he can lay her down in her bed, warm and safe, lock all the doors and keep her. She’s always been so delicate, his beautiful dancer, his gorgeous girl, his lovely little sister…

“Tell me where you are.” _I’ll come get you_ , he wants to tell her. He imagines saving her from wherever she is, cradling her to his chest on the train, watching her sleep as the cities and stations flick by, calm in the knowledge that she is safe.

He can hear her begin to cry on the other end. In this moment, he knows, she misses him, misses the safety and warmth of his embrace, wants to be home with him but can’t, he doesn’t know why, doesn’t understand.

“Claire, tell me where you are.”

But he doesn’t need to understand, not now. She can explain it later. He just needs her home. He needs no one but her. He plans to keep her safe. He won’t let this happen again, won’t leave her again feeling so lost that she runs from the only place he can find her. Like a childhood game, except she left home and now it’s his turn to chase her, track her down.

He’ll move mountains, he’ll swim oceans, he’ll start a war to find her and bring her home, and keep her there, forever.

“Tell me.”


End file.
